


swept away, boy, don't let me lead you astray

by halimedes



Series: sun drenched cobblestone streets [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halimedes/pseuds/halimedes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>the last outbreak of tarantism. romano visits galatina and dances alongside his people.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	swept away, boy, don't let me lead you astray

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write semi-historic fic where tarantism is featured, so i started on this. then it turned into gratuitous non-explicit sex. (because the idea of romano dressed as a wholesome 1950s lad was rather nice.) tbh this was originally intended to be a spamano fic, but i couldn't work out a reason as why spain would be in italy with romano in the late 50s, so there's a original character taking his physical place.

A night in Galatina, Apulia, 1959; the strumming of instruments and clear voices singing, the night hot and smouldering and almost unbearable. Dancing, unbidden and unrestricted for once, the total freedom of just letting go. Tarantella. Picizza.

Romano knows his land barren and struck with terrible heat, knows that a team of doctors from the north are here to talk with his people, the girls who have been bitten by the spiders and had the musicians called out for them to heal. Dancing can help a person heal, he's sure and he holds his hand, feels the twitch of his fingers. He knows the doctors won't see it that way, people seldom do. They will see the things Romano knows, they will see how backwards and wrong this corner of him is and they will tell the world so. People outside of Italy probably won't care, they tend not to when it comes to him, and he shudders. He's certain his fingers are twitching again, though they shouldn't. Not any more. He is no longer a child, but there. His fingers are certainly moving, of their own accord.

He quickly downs the content from the bottle he had ordered a night ago, the wine slightly too dry and heavy and harsh to be considered good, before he joins in the dancing, the mass of people who move to the quick music, the movements familiar to him. This is something he has done for centuries. Romano dances with a boy and it's almost unheard of these days, but he doesn't care and neither does this human so it's more than alright.

They dance and dance and dance, following the beat that quickens without them even noticing and Romano has no idea for how long this goes on, but he know that he's sweating and the beads of his rosary digs in his back pocket when this boy he dances accidentally pulls him too close in a dance step that doesn't belong. It's not long after that that Romano catch the boy's eyes and nods to the dark night and takes hold of a strong wrist, almost large enough for him not to be able to encircle it with his fingers, and pulls him away from the crowd. The boy's eyes sparkle as he follows Romano, the sweat on his brow glistening in what little artificial light the town has to spare.

After that, it's not long before the boy with his calloused hands and hot mouth pushes Romano to lie on the crumbling yellow grass and over a shoulder he sees the yellow moon hangs low in the sky. The world spins slowly. If Romano stretched out his hand surely he would be able to touch it, just barely with his fingertips, wouldn't he?

His mind is muddled and his mouth occupied, teeth biting first at lips and then at this pretty boy's neck above his shirt collar. A boy whose name he doesn't know and doesn't want to know, it's the safest that way, and a hand is palming his erection and Romano bucks up and is met by soft laughter in his ear that does nothing to drown the sound of his moan. Romano thinks of another man who always laughs, who always works and never has more than a penny in his pocket, a man much like the one above him and he digs his nails into that strong back. The shirt is still a layer between them, between any possible skin contact but it is enough to make him hiss and bite just beneath Romano's ear.

‘Be nice,’ he says and Romano can't help the breath of laughter that leaves him in return, shaky and hoarse. He drags one hand down the boy's chest, scratching with nails and opening a couple of buttons and he lets his nails nick the tan skin there. Romano uses his grip on his neck to pull himself up and the boy closer.

‘No one ever taught me to play nice,’ Romano whispers, licks a line along the the shell of the boy's ear and sucks the lobe into his mouth. The boy's hips thrusts down involuntarily, a heavy pressure against Romano's body and he spreads his legs like a common whore and moaned deeply in response.

Romano's toes curl and his foot twitches — the tight leather far too restricting, and he has to break the kiss, panting as he whispers, ‘Take off my shoes’. The boy leans back, his eyes dark and his gaze heavy, fingers clumsy as he removes his hand from Romano's trousers and pulls at the laces of his shoes. He manages to get them loose enough for Romano to kick them off and he sighs when he can wrap his legs around the boy's hips and pull him down for another kiss.

Their kisses are slightly clumsy, inexperienced and too hurried, and Romano allows himself to bite a little harder on the boy's pouty bottom lip than he probably would otherwise. The hand is back in his trousers and he bucks against it.

This boy doesn't fuck Romano and Romano doesn't fuck him either, they only use hands slicked with spit and all too little care to jerk off, and it still manages to knock his breath out of him and his face scrunches up in what must be an incredibly unattractive sight but that doesn't matter because the split second Romano manages to look up at the boy above him he sees that his eyes are closed too.

Romano closes his eyes again and thinks of a man that he loves that has a laughter that rings in his ears like church bells, a man he hasn't seen in years and misses so much, more than he can ever tell and would always deny if ever asked, and in the split second when his eyes roll back and the world is stars behind his eyelids he allows himself to believe that he is loved in the same way too.

When he opens his eyes he is spent and he stares up into the darkness of space, the stars twinkling and the moon in a different position from when this started. The boy that was above him has leaned back and is hurriedly buttoning up his trousers, tucking his shirt seconds later. His movements are nervous, his hands shaking and Romano can see the simple crucifix in the space of his unbuttoned shirt. Romano reaches out with a hand, brushing the boy's hair away from his face only to have the curls fall back in place a second later. The boy smiles and his eyes are afraid, and Romano's heart aches.

He kisses Romano's cheek then and Romano helps button his shirt — the boy whispers ‘You have such beautiful eyes, like gold’ and Romano knows that it's a lie but allows himself to smile back, a corner of a mouth quirked up. He is no good with words and his emotions are a cacophony, so he kisses the corner of the boy's lips and tucks the small crucifix to lie on the inside of the boy's shirt.

‘Thank you,’ he manages to say and the boy's smile widens. His eyes are still afraid when he scrambles off and leaves, and Romano feels guilt swell in his chest like the flood tide rushing up on shorelines, so he will remember this nameless boy that is his and pray for him.

**Author's Note:**

> \+ afaik the last outbreak of tarantism as a widespread thing happened in the city of galatina in apulia in 1959. what date, i'm not sure, so i'm presuming it to be summer and taking some liberties.  
> \+ the doctors that are being referred is the de marino group who went to galatina to do some research in regards to tarantism.  
> \+ the boy is completely made up and not supposed to be anyone in particular, or even resemble someone. (curly hair doesn’t mean a thing. romano might just have a type, is all.)


End file.
